For the Fear of Death
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Before the battle of Helm's Deep, Legolas and Gimli have a little talk....


A/N:  Okay, so I'm currently reading the Lord of the Rings, but so far I've only seen the movies, so that's what I'm using for my story.  I think the dynamics between Gimli and Legolas is portrayed so brilliantly in the movie that I couldn't help but explore it in fanfiction (actually anything Legolas and elf related sparks my interest, but this is for starters, I guess).  I may be off in my interpretations of the elven perspective, but I was just typing and this came out and I decided to share it.  All comments are welcome.

Disclaimers:  How silly do you think I would have to be to pretend these were mine?

For the Fear of Death

                The men of Rohan tittered uneasily behind the fortress walls.  They squirmed in their armor, their swords heavy in hands that were meant for plowing.  Anxious murmurs skittered in the still and thick air.  Eyes blinked quickly, trying to keep focus, trying to hold back the tears of fear.  Some men wandered, hoping to look purposeful as they waited.  Others reclined awkwardly against the stone, resigning themselves to the curse of imagination.  Each man could envision countless outcomes—from the improbably blissful to the terrifying devastating, which sadly was uncomfortably realistic.  Had the situation not been so perilous and so real, the mismatched band of "soldiers" might have actually been amusing.  But standing among them, also adorned in ill-fitting armor, Gimli did not even think of laughing.

                With the help of Legolas and Aragorn, Gimli's armor now fit at least decently—enough so he could walk without tripping and swing his axe without hindrance.

                "Positions!  Positions now, men!"

                The disorderly movement of the men swarmed around Gimli, who suddenly found himself growing nervous.  They were too old, too young, too few.  He had fought many battles, many as an underdog, but never on this scale, never with this much of a handicap.  The army Aragorn described—10,000 vicious, fearless, killing machines—made the ensuing battle seem more like suicide than war.

                Shifting uneasily, he tottered over to Legolas.  The Elf, too, was preparing for battle, counting his arrows, testing his bow.  He looked up, noticing Gimli's approach.  He flashed a brief smile.  "I see you can now walk without tripping," he quipped lightly, nodding to the improved armor.  "Very well.  I did not wish to defend you the entire time."

                "I would not need your defense, no matter how immobile I was," Gimli retorted gruffly, but the banter's superfluity was not lost on his friend.  "I only longed for the adjustments in order to keep a better eye on you, Master Elf."

                Legolas' eyes twinkled.  "Indeed, if that is what you must tell yourself, then I do thank you."

                The Elf made a mocking bow, and Gimli could not repress his smile.  But as his eyes drifted to the scurrying men, tripping over their swords and clanking into one another, his face fell grimly once again.

                Legolas sensed his friend's concerns.  "They are nervous."

                Gimli snorted.  "They are terrified."

                "That is perhaps for the best.  At least we do not need to worry about falling victim to overconfidence."

                "Aye, that is true," Gimli returned, trying to sound lighthearted, but failing somewhat.

                Sighing, Legolas shouldered his quiver.  "Your fears are warranted—"

                "Fear!" Gimli interrupted vigorously.  "I am not afraid!"

                Legolas smiled gently.  "Master Dwarf, your countenance betrays you," he said softly.  "There is no shame in that.  I, too, have had my doubts.  I, too, have felt my faith in the cause waver."

                Gimli's eyes scanned the crowd once again.  "These people are about to fight for everything in their lives—their lives themselves are at stake.  Do you see them tremble?"

                "As readily as you."

                "Perhaps their fear is contagious," Gimli said finally.  "I cannot help but think that we shall not last the night."

                "This night is just like any other.  Any night you breath may be your last.  Death may befall you at any time—war or no.  Have some comfort in that truth."

                "And what of you?" Gimli asked.  "Death does not stalk the elven race."

                Legolas remained unfazed.  "Many men will die tonight.  Many elves will fall by their sides."

                Beyond the hoards of men, Gimli could see the still and erect figures of the elven warriors.  Their stance was calm, free from the jittering that plagued the gathering men.  "But look at them," Gimli gestured.  "They have no fear.  They stand as if they were just preparing for target practice."

                Glancing briefly at his kindred, Legolas grew serious.  "They are calm," he agreed.  "But do not assume they are not afraid."

                "Then you elves are skilled in the arts of disguise."

                "We have more years to understand what it is we face," Legolas tried to explain.

                "Then tell me, my wise friend, what is it that we face this night?"

                Collecting his breath, Legolas stared out over the fortress walls at the gathering dusk.  "We do not face death—it is not that simple.  Death is not so simple as mortals believe.  We face the end of this existence—the bittersweet transition from life to the undying world.  The days and years and centuries we have passed on this land are still but a mere blink to the eye of the undying world.  We face not death tonight, we face eternity.  Mortals believe that only the elves are immortal, but the soul of every being transcends this existence to meet with their final fate in the undying lands."

                Legolas' words trailed off, seeming to drift through the twitching men, pass through the stoic elves, and then flit over the fortress walls, dissipating into the sky, perhaps into the eternal realms of which the elf spoke.  A moment passed before Gimli asked, "So you fear not death?"

                A sad smile spread across Legolas' face.  "That is an assumption you cannot make, my friend."

                "But you said—"

                Turning his eyes to the dwarf, Legolas met Gimli's gaze earnestly.  "I fear not my death, this is true, but do not assume that death holds no fear over me."

                "What do you fear, then?"

                His eyes flicked back to the scenic landscape.  "I fear for the death of these men around me.  I fear for their inability to defend what they so dearly love.  I fear for the sadness in their children's eyes, the anguish of their wives.  Each death brings the fall of man closer—that is what I fear.  I fear the death of each man here and how it adds to the death of Man, one by one.  I fear death shall take them all before I or any of my kindred can save them.  I fear that death shall conquer them."  He paused, glancing back at Gimli.  "I fear for the death of those I care about."

                "But surely you will reunite with your elven kindred in the great undying lands you speak of."

                "I fear not their death.  They are indeed my kindred, and by that we are connected, but they are not as dear to me as some," he said.  Tentatively, he turned his gaze back to Gimli.  "I fear watching my friends—my brothers—die in this battle, never to wake in this world again and that I must face my eternity here without them.  I fear their death, knowing the length of the years and days I would endure without them by my side.  

                "You mortals think that immortality is an unequaled blessing, but let me dispel your misguided notion," he continued, again casting his eyes to the skyline.  "Immortality frees us from fears of illness and even peril.  It provides us the time to do all that we desire, to fulfill our dreams and satisfy our longings.  With our innumerable years, we gain much, but with that endless time, we also are cursed with the burden of memory.  Loss grieves us longer; we carry it with us over more time.  And when the loss is of those who are bound into our very souls—the hole that is torn from us is something that even millennia can never heal."

                He seemed to sigh, trying to gather his thoughts, his emotions.  "Perhaps that is why most elves no longer wish to interact with the mortal races.  For mortality may not stalk us as it does you, but when we are still exposed to it secondhand—it has grieved many elves into an early departure to the undying lands.  Mortals tend to fight for fear of themselves.  I have fought throughout this journey in fear of those I love."

                Gimli was silent, unable to speak.  Part of him wanted to assuage the fear in his friend's voice, but he had no comfort to give.  These fears, he realized, constituted another bond between them, a burden they shared, more intimately than their loyalty to the ring, to the Middle Earth, to the cause.  Slowly he drew himself as tall as he stood, and said, "You are not alone in those fears.  I may not be immortal.  I may not have years to think and to grieve, but I, too, fear the loss of those whom I care for."

                A tight smile played on Legolas' lips as the elf looked once again at Gimli.  "I did not doubt that, my dear friend," Legolas said.

                Gimli felt an uncomfortable sting behind his eyes, and immediately set to squelching it.  "Come then," he bristled.  "Let us take our positions."

                "I am ready," Legolas replied simply, hoisting his bow over his arm.

                "Tonight," Gimli announced as they began away, "I will fight like an immortal."

                "Nay, good Gimli," Legolas countered, the airiness of his voice returning.  "Tonight let us fight not as mortals or immortals, but as brothers, bound not by life, nor death, nor eternity, but by our souls."


End file.
